


[s1e1] A Mild Interest

by indefinite hiatus (Mercs)



Series: Ratiocination [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Cas' Perfect AU, Case Fic, Dark John, Dark Sherlock, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Gen, Good Jim, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Ratiocination series, Some tags were deleted because they don't fit in this part of the series, aulock, but of course with differences, the angels are the demons and vice versa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:16:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mercs/pseuds/indefinite%20hiatus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you've lost interest in most everything else, dabbling into others' goldfish lives seems like the most intriguing option there is. SH</p><p> </p><p>"You want me to... befriend this man?"<br/>"Ah, John Watson. Hello."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 0:00

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first "episode" in this AU series I'm working on. Each episode will, obviously, correspond slightly with each episode of BBC canon. Many roles have been switched- which is kind of the meaning of the AU.  
> Each metaphorical episode will have 3 chapters, or so I plan, each one being 0:00, 30:00 or 60:00 respectively, as thought it was going by 30 minute increments.  
> The AU /is/ still in progress, so don't expect an update every other day. If I can finish this one in a good amount of time, and getting some feedback to go with that, I'll probably get to work on the next one quicker.  
> Any spelling or grammar errors that are spotted, please tell me. Thank you!

#  **A Mild Interest**

### {S1E1}

#### [ _0:00→30:00_ ]

* * *

 

 

 

His first instinct was to sit up in bed, breathing heavily.

 

 

Flashbacks were one thing, but having them inside dreams– turning them to nightmares– were an entirely different story.

 

Not that he should really be worrying about them– his current line of work gave him as much a thrill as the war had, if not more in certain occasions.

 

 

After his sudden discharge from service for an... “undecided” mental state (which they gave him a therapist for, not that he'd ever bothered to go to her), John Watson had done the best he could to find some alternative to the danger he'd become so accustomed to. Crime wasn't his forte, gangs weren't as fun as he'd expected them to be, and nothing else really stood out for the former army doctor.

 

 

 

Although when the option arose for a job as a sniper– that was something he could get on board with.

 

 

 

He'd go from job to job in a matter of days, each paying substantially well. He could live off his wages, but he didn't so much care to. If family every found him and asked about it, there'd be no way to think up an excuse quickly.

 

Not that he bothered to contact any relatives anyway.

 

 

 

 

As his career went on strongly, more and more he heard a name he wouldn't ever be able to forget, even if he tried.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sherlock Holmes.

 

 

 

 

 

From what he'd heard, the man was quite the talk in the underground circles of the criminal world.

 

Constantly spoken about in hushed voices, mentioned but never directly referred to. It was almost as though he was akin to Voldemort in a way, “He who shall not be named.” It could be funny if who they were talking about wasn't a criminal mastermind.

 

Well, that's what it sounded like.

 

 

 

 

 

As the days and jobs went by, Watson would find himself in the company of none other than the infamous mister Holmes. They'd chat, John staying mostly quiet unless specifically addressed, and Sherlock would strike up a deal that no one inn their right mind would decline to. With that in mind, the sniper would accept.

 

 

 

 

And this would mark the start of the two's long partnership of a genius and his crack-shot guardsman.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Polished shoes sat at the edge of the couch, a properly-folded suit jacket lying on the sofa's arm. The furniture creaked as the man standing shifted from leg to leg.

 

Papers were unpinned and fluttered to the floor, new ones being propped into their place.

 

 

The man was setting up for a new case, however much it didn't seem as so.

 

 

 

The door to the flat creaked open, and the new entrant almost shrieked.

“James! _What_ are you _doing_? Get down from there or you'll fall!”

 

 

 

The addressed turned his head to her slightly. Standing on the back of the couch may not have been the safest, but it's not as though he had poor balance.

“I'm pinning the new files to my next case, Mrs. Hudson.” He stepped down from the couch and started putting the discarded papers into a manila folder.

 

“That wasn't dangerous in the least. The most that could have happened was I fell off– which, might I add, has never once happened.” The folder is stacked on top of others, and he dusts his suit off.

“There's no need to worry; you act as though you're my doting mother. Do calm yourself with that.”

 

 

 

The landlady sighs. “I'm just looking out for you, Jim. Who knows what trouble you could get into?”

 

 

 

“Mrs. Hudson. Please. You know good and well that I don't need you constantly worrying about my well-being. You have your own self to manage, and that does not involve me. I'm perfectly capable of keeping myself out of...” the man pauses for a second, thinking of an appropriate word. “...harm's way.”

 

 

Hudson shakes her head, starting down the stairs again.

“Whatever you say, then. I'd still feel better if you got yourself a flatmate to watch out for you.”

 

 

 

 

 

James' eyes roll, and he heads downstairs as well, but leaving the building. “Dear Molly's given me a new one, so I'll be out for a while today.”

 

The door shuts unceremoniously.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Greg Lestrade and his division had been swamped with the newest case that cropped up. They were all over the news; “Serial Suicides? What will the Yard do?” it would always read, or some different form of it. The three victims' different cases baffled them– the only link is the capsule pills each victim took. Of course, that's not enough to find a whole crop of evidence for, as if they'd even find any.

 

 

They'd be found at the strangest locations, not having anything to do with anything. It made no logical sense to them.

 

When they'd run out of options, however, and yet another body was discovered... Lestrade turned to the only man he thought could help.

 

 

 

“Someone ready me a car– I'm going to Baker street.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Switching his focus from the case to his experiments at St. Bart's labs, James enters the room with just a slight nod to the other already here.

 

 

“Morning, Jim.”

 

 

 

There's no reply; instead he's already getting to work on the bodies.

“...the solvent in this solution seems to appear more fervently than the solute when discolouring the skin...”

 

Eventually he mutter's a response to Molly.

“Right, hello. Apologies; busy. Can you hand me that syringe over there?” His hand gestures to one by the microscopes.

 

 

“Oh, of course.” As soon as it's in his hand, he's mixing things and injecting them in different spots.

 

“Thank.. you...”

Little to none of his attention is on anything else.

 

 

 

The next few hours are relatively silent, per usual. It's rare that either of them are interrupted.

 

 

 

When Jim's done, he packs up and leaves, bidding a small farewell to the mortician– whom of which replies with a smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first meeting of Jim Moriarty and John Watson is an interesting one.

The latter is stationed at the former's flat, talking to the landlady about renting one. Jim intrudes on their conversation after viewing John from afar.

 

 

 

“Oh, and who's this?”

 

 

“Ah, John Watson. Hello.”

 

Mrs. Hudson turns to him. “He's asked about renting a flat or something as such. I was thinking he could be your flatmate Jim.”

 

 

“Flatmate?” He eyed her suspiciously. “I told you, I'm fine alone.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I mean, if you're so intent on finding me someone to live with, you might as well send him up so we can... _talk_.”

 

 

 

The detective walks upstairs, leaving the other two to finish their disturbed conversation. John Watson is sent upstairs to 221b.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Doctor or soldier?” Are the first words he hears upon opening the door. James is sitting down comfortably in a chair to the right of the fireplace.

 _Quaint flat_ , Watson thinks. _Less... cluttered._

 

 

“Erm... what?” Confusion.

 

 

“What were you in the army, a doctor, or a soldier?”

 

“A doctor... how do you know this?”

 

 

“It shows in the way you conduct yourself.” Moriarty turns to look John in the face. “Can I correctly assume Afghanistan? Or am I wrong?”

 

He walks over to sit in the other chair, eying Jim as he talks.

“You're right.. again, how–?”

 

 

 

“It's all in how you present yourself, Watson. I'll admit, the doctor bit almost surprised me with the way your hands were twitching. Would have thought that you were itching for some sort of danger, which would bring me to think that you were a soldier, shot in the line of battle and sent home because they couldn't tell how long it would take for you to recover. Perhaps I'm still right in part of that, but you'll be the confirmation for that.”

 

Jim gets up abruptly, starting out the door for the second time that day.

“Mrs. Hudson's been bugging me about getting a flatmate for ages, I'll let you know that the bed upstairs is vacant– if you separation, that is.”

 

His slight innuendo flies straight over John's head as he stands up to process everything else.

“Excuse me? I don't even know your name, so how do you think I'd suddenly share a flat with a man I don't know?”

 

 

He smirks. “James Moriarty, consulting detective. And you will, I can predict as much.” He takes a few more steps down the stairs.

“I'll also be back in a bit– left my vials at the mortuary. Can't lose those.”

 

 

The front door shuts and Watson is left in a state of confusion, mixed wit mild interest.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

When he returns to the flat, there are boxes strewn out.

 

John's in.

 

 

 

Mrs. Hudson walks out of the kitchen reading the paper as John walks down the stairs.

“Jim, is this the case you're talking about earlier? These suicides?”

 

 

“Not suicides, murders. And in case I'm wrong...” He looks out the window. “There's been a fourth.”

 

John jumps in. “What do you mean a fourth? A fourth suicide?”

 

 

 

“Oh, John. Dear, dear Watson. Why don't you come along? I'm sure Greg will let you.”

 

 

 

“I'll let who do what now?”

 

 

“Ah, right on time. Doctor John Watson is going to accompany me this time. Hope that's no problem, _Greg_.” He strides right past him after dusting his suit.

 

“...right, 'course. Just– come on then.”

 

 

 

“Now where was this one?”

 

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens . But it's different, this one. Which is why we're coming to you.”

 

 

 

“Well _obviously_.” He motions for John to follow them to the cars. “Come along, Watson. Don't just stand there as a pretty face.”

 

 

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts before going downstairs with them.

 

 

 

Mrs. Hudson flips the page to the papers. “Dear me...”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

By the time Lestrade's sped off, James is already hailing a cab. He leaves the door open for John to join him.

For a while, the ride is silent.

 

Jim catches the other staring at him from the corner of his eye and he addresses it. “I sense you've got questions, Johnny.”

 

 

Ignoring the nickname, he responds. “Well, obviously. How'd you know all that about me? Did someone tell you– no, wait. You looked me up online.”

 

 

The Cheshire grin adorning Moriarty's face is enough to tell him no for either.

“I _told_ you, it's all in the way you hold yourself. The way you stand says military, trembling of your hands says you itch for the risk again. Following me along just further proves that point. You never said _why_ you're looking for a flat, though. Care to tell me? Oh, and I need to borrow your mobile for a second.”

 

 

He hands over the phone with no complaints.

“I can't afford to live anywhere else with an army pension.”

 

 

“Mm, I see.” Just as he's about to return the object, he holds it up instead. “And I _suppose_ going to family wasn't an option, then. If you can't find a place on what you have, then you certainly didn't get this phone yourself. Someone else did, possibly familial yet you don't keep in contact with said person. That leads me to believe that they have a habit or person that you wouldn't approve of, such as an addiction to drinking or a rude partner. I would guess habit and drinking since there's scratch marks around the plughole. Never see a drunk's mobile without them.” He turns the phone around with his fingers delicately. “Though there's nothing to else to tell me if it was a true hand-me-down or if it's your trembling hands that made those marks. I assume I'll just have to find that out myself.” Finally, he holds the phone out to be taken back.

 

“...and you said you were a...?”

 

“Consulting detective. Only one in the world; I made up the title. Police come to me when they're too incompetent to solve their cases– meaning almost always.

 

Oh, we've arrived.”

The cabbie stops, and James exits the car first.

 

 

* * *

 

 

One of Lestrade's brigade greets them outside.

“Freak.”

 

 

“Nice evening tonight, isn't it, Sally?” Jim responds in the same tone.

“I'd suggest if you're going to sleep with someone, _don't_ put their deodorant on in the morning.”

With that, he walks under the tape.

 

 

Sally gawks at him, before shaking her head and turning to Watson.

“Why're you here?”

 

 

“Greg _invited_ me, you should know as much.”

 

“And who's this?”

 

 

 

“A... colleague. He's coming in.”

 

 

“Since when did you get a “colleague”?” Her voice is sarcastic at best.

 

 

 

“I _said_ he's coming in.” He snaps at her, realigning his suit jacket. “Come along, John.” Jim walks off towards the building, and the doctor is left to go under and follow.

 

 

 

 

Once again, they're stopped before entering.

“Hello Anderson. Is everyone going to stop me before I enter this scene? It's getting quite tedious and honestly, I'd like to go in already.”

 

 

“Don't contaminate the crime scene, then.”

 

 

“Like I'd bother. That's boring.”

 

He scoffs. “Right.”

 

 

 

Moriarty breathes in deeply, and out again. “How long's your wife been away? That scent is _awfully_ familiar.”

 

 

Anderson gives him a pointed look. “Excuse me? What's that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means I've smelt it before– in this general area to be precise.”

 

 

“It's just deodorant.”

 

 

 

“For men.” A smirk appears on the detective's face.

“Not that Sergeant Donovan would know that.”

 

 

Jim holds the door open for himself and John. “I wonder how _clean_ your floors are. Very, I'd suspect.” He leaves them to glance at each other in shock, John paying them no mind as he walks in after the consultant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When the enter the room, the woman– the victim– is lying face down, all dressed in pink. Compared to the rest of the room, it's quite a sight to see the one splash of colour. Of course, it doesn't exactly brighten the room, but to each his own.

 

“Jim, Who've you brought on this time?”

 

“ _This_ time? Oh, please.” He shoos him off. “Doctor John Watson. He's my help.”

 

 

 

“I called for you, not someone else.”

 

“He's my _help_ , Greg.”

 

 

Lestrade bites back a comment. “Fine, fine. God.”

The two head in, leaving Watson to put on the required coverall that Jim conveniently “forgot.”

 

 

After it's on, John heads in with the rest of them.

 

Jim having a rant tossed at him is the first thing he hears.

 

 

 

“For God's sake, Jim. Do you have to do that _every_ time?”

 

 

Moriarty feigns a smile. “Do what? Prove I'm much more competent than your little troop at figuring every inch of the crime in just a few minutes?” He wets his lips.  
“My apologies. Not everyone is as quick as me, I suppose.”

 

 

 

The Detective Inspector shakes his head. “Just... calm down, alright? These _are_ my cases, I'm just letting you _help._ Remember that.”

 

 

James hums in what could be agreement, taking another glance at the body.

“Obviously; there's still little mysteries in this one. Where's her case? Where's her phone? Why's she gone and scratched “Rachel” into the floor as a dying message?”

 

 

 

 

Another someone butts into their conversation. “Rachel? Where'd you get that?” The man crosses his arms. “It's clearly German; “ _rache_ ” means revenge.”

 

 

“Anderson, don't be rude. This was a relatively private conversation about the case.” Jim brushes him off and shoos him with a hand.

“She's not German, so her knowing just that one word seems completely illogical. It's Rachel.”

 

 

“I don't understand.”

 

 

 

The consulting detective turns to face the other, mildly unamused expression on his face.

“Look at it from a different angle, Phillip. She's a woman, mid-thirties at best, relatively good media job. Sure, there are few possibilities she did know the language, but all of them can be researched and proven false. With that ring on her hand, she must have a husband– even if she's been unsatisfied and cheating for quite some time. The probability of their having a child seems quite likely, especially so in my eyes.”

 

 

 

Anderson stands there, somewhat shocked. Watson shakes his head.

“...alright then.”

 

 

“John, ah, I didn't see you there. What else can you get from this body that I haven't already listed?”

 

 

 

Realizing he's been put into the spotlight, he squats down to the body.

“Er... well, she hasn't been here long. Asphyxiation, seems like. Choked on her own vomit; doesn't smell like any alcohol, however. Could have been a seizure, possibly drugs.”

 

 

 

Jim chuckles.

 

“What?”

 

 

“Oh, nothing. That was all fine; but you've read the papers.”

 

 

“The serial suicides..? Is she the fourth?”

 

 

“Obviously. You heard what I said to Anderson, I know you were here by then. I'll expand on it, then.”

He clears his throat, prepared to speak.

“The media job is quite obvious by the alarming shade of her clothes; all her jewelery shines except for her ring– outside only, meaning it's taken off regularly. That there reveals the state of her marriage– ten or more years, but unsatisfactory for her needs. The size of her suitcase means she was only staying for one night– Cardiff to London. Before you ask, you can tell she has one by looking at her stockings. Dirty, and this woman obviously cares for the look of her clothing. The state of her coat is slightly damp, meaning that she's been in rain recently. Heavy rain, by the looks of it, which hasn't been London weather as of recent. Under her collar's soaked as well, meaning there must have been strong winds. Too strong to use an umbrella, as it's in her left-side pocket all dry.”

 

 

“Hold up. You said suitcase– what do you mean suitcase?”

 

“I _just_ explained that.”

 

 

“No, no. I mean, there wasn't a suitcase when we came in. None at all.”

 

 

“Interesting.” He moves that topic to the side to continue his analysis. “The suitcase, judging from the splash marks on her legs like I mentioned, was a rolling one. The dirt couldn't be from anything too big, which further proves that she was meaning to stay overnight. Rather small case, but not too small. Must have had a phone or organizer in it. Now where's it gone?”

 

 

The D.I. groans. “I just told you. There was no case.”

 

 

“I wasn't asking you. It was a rhetorical question, Greg.”

 

 

 

Jim turns back to Lestrade completely. “Anywho, are we done for now? I've got some _things_ I'd like to look into.” Without waiting for a response, he walks off, leaving Greg to look from him to the body and back with a cluttered mind.

 

The confused man glances at John. “...aren't you going to follow him?”

 

 

 

He just shrugs. They walk out of the room at their own pace, and James is just about to leave.

 

“Oi, what do you need the case for anyway?”

 

 

 

“They're not suicides. They're murder. You don't try to track a serial killer down– you wait for them to make a mistake. And that's _it_.” His pace is quick as he walks out of the door.

“Look up this woman's family and friends– find Rachel– Come along, John!”

 

He starts down the stairs to catch up with the excited genius.

Lestrade calls out to him as they leave. “But what's the mistake?”

 

 

 

They've already gone out the door, but he receives a text instead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

> **_Pink. JM_ **

 


	2. 30:00

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Augh. I meant for this to be put up earlier, but I couldn't for the life of me place Mycroft without erasing it. I'm relatively alright with it now.  
> Enjoy~

#  **A Mild Interest**

### {S1E1}

#### [ _30:00→60:00_ ]

* * *

 

 

 

By the time John thinks he's caught up to Jim, the man is nowhere in sight. He sighs, shaking his head as Donovan calls him over.

“Oi. He's left already.”

  


He looks confused. “You mean Jim?”

“Yes, that freak. He's gone off to... wherever.” She shrugs, shaking her head.

  


Watson chews his lip, thinking. “Is he, er, going to come back?”

Another shake of the head answers his question.

“Right... right.” He glances around idly. “D'you think there's anywhere I could catch a cab from here?”

Donovan looks down the road before lifting the police tape.  
“Try the main road, I guess.”

He nods, but Sally interrupts him as he starts to walk.

  


  
“What even are you to him?”

“...nothing? I just met him.”

  


“Word of advice: stay away from that guy.”

  


His response is delayed. “Why?”

“Did you know? He's not paid to be here. He just likes it. Probably gets off on.” Her nose crinkles in slight disgust. “The stranger it is, the more he gets off.”

John stays quiet, listening to what she's telling him.

“And you know what I think? One day, just showing up to solve it won't be enough. One day we'll be standing around a body, and James Moriarty will be the one that put it there. So watch your back.”

“....but why?”

  


“He's a psychopath. It's what they all do in the end. They get bored.”

Lestrade's booming yell breaks them from their conversation. “Donovan!”

She calls back to him; “Coming!”; before saying one last thing to John.  
“Stay away from James Moriarty.” With that, she turns and walks back towards the house.

  


After taking a few minutes to dwell on what he's been told, John slowly gets himself to start moving.

  


  


  


  


As he halts around the main road, waiting for a cab to pass, one of the payphones begin to ring. He shrugs it off when someone picks it up and the noise quiets, but as he walks on and another one rings, he hesitates before picking it up.  
“Hello...?”

“There's a security camera on the building to your right. Do you see it?”

“Excuse me?” _Who the hell is this?_ “Do I care?”

  


“Do you see it, Doctor Watson?”

He starting to get agitated. “Yes, I see the bloody thing. What of it?”

He doesn't get an answer. The voice on the phone goes on as if it didn't hear the second question.  
“There's another one on the building opposite you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get to the point.”

  


“There's one last one is on the top of the building to your left. See it?”

  


“I said _get to the point!_ ”

“Watch them.”  
At once, they all turn towards him. After a few seconds, they turn right back to their previous positions.

“And?”

“Get in the car, John.”

As soon as he focuses his attention, a striking black car pulls up by the kerbside. Watson groans.  
“I truly don't like making threats. I hope the situation is clear enough for you.”

“No, it isn't. I've got my dick caught in a ceiling fan.”

Whoever was on the phone hangs up without responding. The door to the car is opened by the driver. John hangs the phone up and begrudgingly gets in. The woman already inside looks up at him.

“...hello.”

There's no response, as the man in question is staring out the window.

She coughs to try and gain his attention.  
“I suppose that you're... John Watson?”

  


“Yes.” His voice is gruff.

  


Acknowledging that he isn't going to take the effort to converse, she looks back down to her Blackberry.  
“...Anthea.”

  


He huffs at her, and the rest of the ride is silent.

  


  


  


  


  


Their arrival is at a darkened, practically empty warehouse. The car stops, and Anthea gestures for him to get out. He does without any hesitation, taking his sweet time in walking towards the figure standing in the dark.

  


For a few moments, there's absolute silence.

  


  


There's a cough, and then the other speaks.  
“...John.”

  


Watson stares him down in the dim, damp light, not responsive.

  


“You know who I am, though I've never been mentioned.”

  


  


“...you're Holmes' brother. Michael, or something like that.”

  


“Mycroft.” He corrects, fidgeting with the handle to his umbrella.  
“But, you are right.”

“What did you call me here for?” John's impatience is clear. “Get to the bloody point, I've got a schedule to uphold.”

  


“Right, of course.” The elder Holmes man clears his throat before starting; not actually, however. He gestures to a chair.  
“Care to sit?”

  


“Just talk, Holmes.” He's trying his best not to let out too much unnecessary anger.

The man sighs. “On then.” He grips the rounded edge of his umbrella with both hands.  
“You are... very close to my younger brother, yes?”

“I am.”  
Before Mycroft can continue, he adds on to his statement.  
“Is that why you couldn't phone me, y'know... _on my phone_?”

“Yes, mm. When one is avoiding Sherlock, he learns to be quite discreet.”

 _Not quite_ , the sniper keeps the thought to himself.  
“What's so wrong with him?”

“I could assume you understand his,” He inhales sharply before continuing. “Position?”

  


  


“He's a criminal. What more is there really to understand?” Watson stares at him with a bored expression. “What, is he “on the wrong side of the law” to you or something like that? Are you some kind of major politician?”

  


“I'm... it's not like _that_ , per say...” A sigh escapes his lips despite his best efforts. “He's my brother. I'm _concerned_ for him. That he might do something idiotic and get himself in more trouble than he or I can manage. Even with my optimum effort, he's still become what he is today. The most I can do now is make sure he stays out of national, or even global, danger.”

  


“This is Sherlock fucking Holmes you're talking about. The man's genius; he doesn't need your help. _I_ don't need your help.”  
His phone beeps before he can go on. He pulls it out to look.

  


  


 

> _**If it's convenient, do return to Baker Street. JM** _

  


  


He shakes his head to the message, finishing his part of dialogue.  
“Just mind your own business and sod off.”

  


Mycroft instead ignores him. “Was that him?”

  


“No; fuck off.”

  


“Then who it?”

  


“I said fuck off. Do you know English?”

  


  


He sighs again, deciding what to say next.  
“...I suppose that... you are to decline my offer to loan me information about my brother?”

“Obviously.”

  


 

> _**If it's inconvenient, come anyway. JM** _

  


“You won't reconsider?”

  


“No.”

“Not even for pay?”

“Stop.”

“It's nothing too difficult.”

“Why don't you do it yourself?”

  


“We have a... harsh relationship.”

  


  


They stand in silence for a while, before John's mobile beeps once more.

 

> _**Might be dangerous. JM** _

“I have things to do.” He hisses, turning back towards the dark car. “Fuck off, and leave me alone.”

  


  


Mycroft watches him get inside the vehicle, and shakes his head slowly as it drives off.

  


  


  


* * *

 

  


  


  


Anthea tries once more to make small talk during the ride to Baker Street.  
“Do you... ever get free time?”

  


“No.”

  


Denied, she looks back down to her phone for the remainder of the ride.  
  


  


  


  


  


  


When they arrive, Watson doesn't bother saying a word as he exits the car and walks up to the door. The car drives away as he opens it and steps in. Upon getting up to the flat, he notices Moriarty laying on the couch, eyes closed, jacket off. His first instinct is to ask why.

“What are you doing?”

  


“Thinking.” Is James' one word response.

  


“...excuse me?” He shuts the door behind him. “And why did you call me over, then?”

  


  


“I need to borrow your phone.” The consultant holds his hand out and waits.

  


“I was on the _other side_ of London, and all you needed me for was so you could use my phone? Don't you have your own?”

  


“Yes, but using it could compromise what I want to do. I believe my number was on Molly's blog once. It could very well be known.” His fingers wiggle, and he opens his eyes and turns towards Watson. “Phone?”

John sighs, pulling his mobile from his back pocket and handing it over to Jim. “Mrs. Hudson has a phone, you know.

“Didn't want to disturb her. Thank you.”  
He sits up properly, opening John's mobile and starting to tap away at the screen.

  


Watson waits a bit before speaking again. “What's this even about, anyway– the case?”

  


“Her case.”

“ _Her_ case?”

  


“Yes, the woman's suitcase, John. The murderer obviously took it. First mistake.”

  


“Alright... so he took her case. What about it?”

  


“There's a slip of paper on my desk. Could you get it?”

“Why?”

“I want you to send a text.”

He groans loudly. “You called me over from the other side of London just to send a text for you.”

“Yes.” James looks up at him, holding the phone back out to him. “Is that a problem?”

  


There's no other response other than an indignant huff as John grabs his mobile back, stalking over to the desk. The name on the slip of paper triggers him to speak again.  
“Jennifer Wilson... isn't that the pink lady– the dead woman?”

“Yes, yes; unimportant. Just enter the number and type what I say.” Moriarty starts to stand, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. As soon as the other's typed in the number, he continues on.  
“These words to a T; _“_ _What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.”_ ”

He gets so far as half-through have, before he looks back to Jim. “You blacked out?”

  


“No. No! Just, continue.”

  


John shakes his head, but keeps typing until he's done.  
“Anything else?”

“Yes; _“Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.”_ That's it.” He walks around the tea table and towards the kitchen. “Are you done?”

A shake of the head is the response. “What was the address?”

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street; hurry up, John.” He sets down a medium-sized pink suitcase on a chair he's moved into the room, and then sits himself down in his own armchair.

“I've sent it.”

  


“Marvellous.”

  


It takes the doctor a few seconds to realize the case.  
“That's– that's her case. Jennifer Wilson's.”

“Yes; good observation however rather late.” Constructive criticism. Or so he calls it. “For the record– I am _not_ the murderer.”

  


“I... didn't say you were?”

“It seemed implied by your tone of voice; you were surprised that I had the case. Many others seem to think I would and could slink down to that level of boredom but, trust me, I don't.”

John's expression is sceptical at best, but he walks over to the case, shoving his phone back in his pocket. “...do people really think you're a murderer?”

  


He smiles. “Occasionally, yes. Sit.”

  


“...alright.” He moves over to the empty chair and does as instructed. “And... how'd you get her case?”

  


“By looking.” His grin grows wider. “I have ways.”

“Mm... where?”

“The killer likely drove her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident–she must have left it in the vehicle when they arrived.” He folds and stretches his hands in his lap.  
“Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, especially a man; which is statistically more likely. So obviously, after having noticed it, he would had gotten rid of it. Should have taken him under five minutes to realize his mistake.

“I had some people check every back street wide enough for a car within five minutes of Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without fear of being observed. Lo and behold– there it was. Took them less than an hour to relocate it.”

  


  


John stared at him for a few quiet seconds.  
“And you got all that... because the case must have been pink?”

Jim shrugged. “Well it had to be pink. It was obvious.”

  


He shakes his head, muttering to himself. “Why didn't I think of that...”

  


“Because you're not as quick to process as I am.”  
Jim was quick to speak as Watson looked back at him.  
“No, no. Don't worry yourself over it, Johnny. Next. Do you see what missing from it?”

“How _could_ I?”

“Her phone, John. Where's her mobile? No phone on the body, no phone in the case; with her type of job she wouldn't go without it.”

“Maybe she... left it at home, by accident?”

“Oh, please. She has a string of lovers and wouldn't be so _careless_.”

  


He thinks carefully before speaking. “Why did I send that text?”

“The right question is, where is her phone?”

“She could have just lost it..?”  
An eye roll shows that wasn't what he was looking for.

“...you think the murderer has her phone?”

“She could have left it when she left her case. Maybe the murderer took it directly from her. Balance of probability, Watson, is that the murderer has her phone.”

  


Interrupting their conversation, John's phone starts to ring. The number appears as “withheld.” He doesn't answer.

  


“Did I just text a _murderer_?”

He is ignored in favour of James voicing his thoughts.  
“Hours after his latest victim, and he receives a text that can only be from her. If someone had _found_ the phone, they would have ignored something as little as that. But, you see, the murderer...”

He patiently waits until the other's phone is silent.

“...would start to panic.” Flipping the suitcase closed, he stands up, walking across the room to grab his jacket. John looks from him, and back to his phone. When he looks up, he talks.

“Have you mentioned any of this to the police?”

“Why would I? Four people are dead.” He steps halfway out the door, pausing for a second.

“Then why are you talking with me?”

He sighs and pouts, crossing his arms like a child. “Mrs. Hudson moved my spider.”

“So I'm filling in for a petrified dead spider?”

“Don't worry; you're doing fine.”

  


John blinks, trying to understand this mess.

  


“Well?”

“Well _what_?”

“I mean, you _could_ just sit there and watch whatever's boring on the telly...”

“You... want me to come with you.”

“I prefer company when I go out, and having someone to talk aloud to isn't half bad.” Moriarty shrugs nonchalantly, previous immaturity gone.  
“Can't exactly bring along a solid spider now can I.”

Watson purses his lips, not looking at the detective. A slight shake of the head to himself before James goes on.

“Problem?”

“Well, ah. Sergeant Donovan...”

“What about her?”

“She said... you enjoy this. Get off on it.”

  


He waits a second before letting a smirk cross his face.  
“And I said dangerous... and here you are.” With that, he walks right out the door.  
It takes John a few seconds but soon he gets up and follows him, muttering to himself about being owed for all this trouble he's getting himself into.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


“ _Where_ are we going?” The former militant asks as they walk down a relatively crowded street.

“Northumberland street. It's five minutes from here.”

“You think 'e's stupid enough to go there?”

“No, I think he's brilliant enough.”  
One confused face urges the man to go on.

“The desperate ones are just so brilliant to get caught.”

  


“Er.. why?”

“Appreciation. Applause. They want their turn in the spotlight and everyone to be looking at them. It's the frailty of genius, Johnny. It craves an audience.”

Watson glances around. “Yeah...”

  


Jim rubs his hands together idly, also taking a gander of what they walk past.  
“This is his hunting grounds. Now that we know he abducts his victims, it makes it easier to figure out how. All of them disappeared from busy streets, crowded areas– but nobody would bat an eye.” He goes tense.  
“ _Think_. How could he do it– who do we trust though we don't know a single detail about them? Who passes, yet no one bothers to pay any attention?

“Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

  


“...dunno. Who?”

“Don't have a clue.”  
He turns abruptly, starting across the street.

“Fancy a meal?”

  


  


  


They enter a small cafe-type restaurant on the side, sitting in the booth closest to the window. Jim nods at the man that welcomes them as he takes the slip of paper off the wood.

“Twenty-two Northumberland street; keep your eyes on it, alright?”

“What, do you think he's just going to ring the doorbell? That's absurd.”

“Remember– he _has_ killed four people.”

John rolls his eyes, shrugging off his coat.  
“Right.”

  


A tall, sturdy-looking man comes up to their table shortly– a waiter. Jim waves without moving his eyes from the window.  
“Angelo. Pleasure.”

The man takes his hand and shakes, the former finally turning towards him.  
“Jim; great to see ya'. Anythin' on the menu, on the house. For you, and your date.”

“Did you want to eat?”

John does a double take, rubbing an eye and blinking.  
“Excuse me? I'm not his date.”

Moriarty's grin just grows wider at the insinuation.

Other than that, his comment is overlooked. Angelo points to James fondly, offering John his other hand to shake.  
“This man– he got me off a murder charge. Fantastic, really.”

The consultant has already turned back to the window, watching the cars pass.  
“Three years ago I successfully proved to Greg at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking.”

“Got me clean out of that one.”

“I cleared your name a _bit_.”  
He pulls a toothpick from his jacket picket and picks idly at his teeth.

From this point, he's more aiming his words at John than at Jim. “For this man, I'd go to prison.”

The mentioned man turns and gives the manager an baffled look.  
“You _did_ go to prison.”  
Sighing that it's not worth it, he looks back at the streets outside.

Angelo chuckles, starting off. “I'll get a candle. 'S more romantic.”

Watson calls back at him with a groan. “I'm not his date!”

It, once again, goes unheard.

  


  


  


  


After ordering and receiving food, John speaks up again.  
“...why isn't anyone but me bothering to understand that I'm _not_ your date?”

“Selective hearing, I could assume.” The previous smirk from the same topic returns, also carrying a glint in his eye.

“What, don't you have a girlfriend or something?”

“Not my ballpark, if you catch my drift.”

  


It takes him a few moments to process this.  
“Oh. Right, hum. D'you... have a boyfriend, then? That's– that's fine, by the way.”

“I know that. But no. Much too caught up in my work right now to bother with little informalities like that.”

He awkwardly drops the topic, not saying anything and instead resuming with his meal.

  


“I'm open to anything, though, Johnny boy.”

He looks up from his food, rather shocked. “No– I, no. I was– I was just saying. It's all fine– I just– yeah.”

Jim is quiet for a moment before nodding.  
“Alright.”  
His gaze focuses back through the window.

“A taxi. Look.”

John follows his line of sight.  
“It's not moving. No one's getting in or out.”

“Precisely. It's clever. But _why_? Why's it clever? Oh. I see.”  
His eyes light up. “ _Brilliant_.”

“What?”

“Don't stare.”

“But you're staring.”

“It looks suspicious if both persons are staring, John.”

Instead of averting his gaze, he just gets up and walks out the door. Flustered and irritated, John grabs his shed coat and goes right after him.  
Jim's already across the street, and when Watson goes to follow he gets stuck between a mess of cars. Apologizing to some and flipping others off, he breaks into a sprint to catch up to Moriarty.

“I've got the cab number.”

“Lovely.” He presses the toothpick up behind his front teeth, thinking and muttering to himself.  
“Right turn, one way... traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing... left turn only, traffic lights. Come along, John.”  
He starts running, leaving John to once more chase after him.

  


  


They sprint through side streets and alleyways, up fire escapes and over gaps between buildings. Dust and dirt kick up around them, and the cuffs of Jim's pants start to stain. John almost trips over the top of a building, and that slows their chase down enough that Jim has to pull out an alternate, faster route.

  


“This way–” He takes a sharp right turn, and John almost goes the opposite way, having seen the cab drive right past.

With the location the cab and them can intersect clear in his mind, Jim pushes himself to run faster. He exits from the alley and stops in the middle of the street– and the taxi's path. John comes up beside him, panting.

“Police– open up.” His voice has a clear strain from lack of normal breathing while they ran. He opens the passenger door, trying to compose himself.

 _Tan, teeth, luggage–_ “American, California. Just arrived from Los Angeles.”

John looks at him. “How do you know that?”

“Luggage.”

The man being stared down shifts uncomfortably, looking up at the two. “Er... are you the police?”

 _Obvious accent._ He flashes the badge again. “Yes. Welcome to London.” He walks off without another word. John opens his mouth to speak, then closes it.

“Any problems, just let us know.” He follows James a few meters away from the cab. “Just a cab that happened to slow down?”

“Clearly.” He dusts his suit of any dirt he can. “This is why I get others to do this sort of thing. It ruins my suits.”

The mention of his suits is ignored. “So, not the murderer?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Wrong country; good alibi.” He shrugs.  
“How'd you get that?” He asks, pointing to the police card. Jim takes it out and hands it to him.

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He gets boring sometimes, to I pickpocket him.”

Watson shakes his head, a small small on his lips.

“You can keep it; I've got plenty.” With that as permission, he pockets the card and looks up again. By the cab they just stopped is an actual policeman, talking to the American tourist.

“So... run?”

  


Moriarty looks back, grins, and nods to John.  
“Far too ready.”

 


	3. 60:00

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, five months, lotso f personal crap, and much switching of fandoms later, here it is; the final chapter for e1. My honest-to-god apologies, school caught up along with other things, and i got more into one of my other fandoms for a while as well. I'm back, though, head-first into the Sherlock fandom for now so I've told myself I'll try to get as much done with this AU as possible. I haven't given up on it yet! I'll leave this off for now, so that you can finally read the chapter that I had to rewrite bits of three times. :'D Enjoy the pain that came with this chapter.  
> I feel like I should mention up here that this hasn't been britpicked or betaread, so apologies for inaccuracies and such now. ;;;

#  **A Mild Interest**

### {S1E1}

#### [ _60:00→90:00_ ]

* * *

 

 

 

Having arrived back at the flat, the boys leaned against the paper-covered hardwood wall in the foyer as they caught their breaths.

 

 

"That," John said between breaths. "Was the most ridiculous thing, I've ever done."

 

"You invaded Afghan, remember."

 

 

Watson starts to laugh, and Moriarty soon follows.  
"But that wasn't only me."

Jim shakes his head, laughter dying down to just a smile.

 

 

"So... are we going back to the restaurant?"

As quickly as his mirth arrived, it vanishes, and Jim is dusting off his Westwood and removing the jacket. "No; they know what to do there. It wasn't a big chance anyhow."

 

 

The other raises a brow. "Why were we there in the first place, then?"

 

Jim shrugs as they head back into 221b.

 

"Just... Passing the time away." He turns towards the blond.

"... And figuring something out."

 

"What something?"

 

 

The brunet shrugs, turning back into the flat and hanging his coat on the stand. He calls out to the landlady. "Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs."

 

 

"Says who?"

 

 

"You."

Jim walks towards the armchairs as the woman practically stumbles through the door.

 

"Jim, dear me, what have you done now?"

"Pardon?"

 

 

She motions downstairs, and the boys follow her down to where Lestrade is waiting.

 

"Gregory, what now?"

 

"Care to explain why I was just informed that an American tourist happened to run into "myself"– rather unusually, might  I add– a short while ago?"

 

 

 

James waved the D.I. Off nonchalantly. "I don't see why it's a big deal. The outcome wasn't useful at all anyway."

 

 

 

"You have my badge."

 

"And?" He didn't seem impressed with the other.

 

"So help me god, Jim..."

 

His lips twitch into a small smirk. "I already help you."

 

 

Greg stutters on his words, then just gives up completely. "Y'know what, I don't care. Keep it. Just please, for the sanctity that is my job, stop stealing my badges. I actually need those."

 

"Alright, alright; fine. Don't get boring, then." The detective shrugs, grinning smugly.

 

 

Lestrade bit back another comment, instead turning back towards Anderson who'd walked over, seeming out of breath.

 

"I know," he took a few deep inhales. "You have the case. The, the pink one. The dead lady's case."

 

 

"Yes, lovely deduction. She also has a _name_ , despite her post-mortem state. Anything else to add that isn't already _obvious_?"

 

The brunette scoffed in Moriarty's direction, muttering something to the D.I..

The greying man sighs, shaking his head. "We're going up, Jim."

 

"Excuse me?" Both eyebrows raised at the prospect of the others just barging right into his flat, his main office, his _living space_ for god's sake.

 

"You heard me."

 

 

 

"I am not a _child_ , _Gregory_." James crossed his arms, practically pouting on the spot.

 

"Well _clearly_ , that's who I'm dealing with." Greg stared sternly back, Anderson hiding a snicker beside him. "This is our case, and I'm only letting you help. You can't just go off on your own agenda as you see fit!"

 

"Well your clammy lot wasn't getting anywhere anytime soon! Seriously! "Oh look, I know for sure she wrote _rache_ , German for revenge! There's no context for it but I'm absolutely certain that's it!" _Pathetic_!" Moriarty points to himself, sneering at the two cops in front of him. "Everything you've got, comes from _me_. I do all this work because I _enjoy_ the challenge, and I still allow you to take credit because _I'm just that nice_. Don't you tell me what to and not to do, Gregory Lestrade, I am _not_ your bloodhound."

 

Not being able to keep to himself by this point, John steps in between the three. "Alright then, let's all calm down, there's no need to claw each others' throats out at this point in time. How about we just work together, and forget what just happened. Let's head all upstairs."

 

They go up quietly, without interruption. Donovan follows.

 

Once up, Jim turns his back on the others, stubbornly taking his partner's advice.

Lestrade shakes his head once more, but doesn't say anything else on the matter.

 

"Anyway. We found Rachel."

 

The only physical acknowledgement from the detective is a slight turn of his head.

"Who is she?"

 

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

 

Jim turns completely around, previous anger wiped clean and replaced with confusion and a frown. "Her daughter? Only daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

 

Anderson shrugs, pointing at the case. "Don't think about _that_ ; you have the case."

Donovan takes a step near it, aiming a stare at Jim. "As said by a certain _someone_ , the murderer has the case. And here we find it in the– very capable– hands of our resident psychopath."

 

The suspect in her question rolls his eyes. "Sally, please. I'm not a _psychopath_. If you'd like to know, I'm only the friendly, neighbourhood sociopath with a higher IQ than most of you combined. Next time, ask before you accuse." He looks back at Greg.

"Bring the girl in. You— _I_ need to question her."

 

 

"You see, we would have done that, but she's dead."

 

 

"Lovely. Any causes? Suspects? When's or why's? Any connection at all?"

Watson blinks a few times at the consultant's response.

 

 

"Nothing. She's been dead for fourteen years, Jim– Jennifer Wilson's stillborn child."

 

The others take on grimaces and upset demeanors, looking anywhere else in the room.

 

 

"That's... No. Not right. Why would she.. why?"

 

Donovan scoffs despite the mood. "Why would she think of her still daughter in her last moments? Yup. Sociopath. Seeing it now, real clear."

 

"She didn't just _think_ about her; she scratched her name into the floorboards with a fingernail." Jim's expression was almost disappointed with the other. "The woman was _dying_ , Sally. It took _effort_. It physically _hurt_."

He turns his back to her, thinking to himself with a variety of hand gestures.

 

 

John speaks up. "Well, you said that all the victims took the poison themselves– that he makes them take it. So, don't you think that he might have to, I dunno... talk to them? To convince them? Maybe he mentioned her daughter somehow."

 

 

"Yes, that may be true, but it's still not the answer of why she'd write Rachel into the floor..." He pressed two fingers to his temples, rubbing in circles. "That isn't it.. what is?"

 

"If you were dying, well, murdered– hypothetically, of course–what would your last words be?"

 

Watson deadpans. "Please, god, let me live."

 

"Oh, be creati..ve..." Moriarty grows quiet, shaking his head as a silent apology.

"But if you were brilliant– really, superbly clever– and she was– with her string of lovers and whatnot." He looks at them all with a grand display of hand motions. "She was trying to tell us something!"

 

 

There's some footsteps on the stairs right in the hall of the flat, and Mrs. Hudson peeks into the room.

"Jim, is your bell working? Your taxi's here."

 

 

"What? I didn't order a taxi. Send it off."

 

He takes to pacing the room anxiously.

 

 

"Why're you three here? Is there something wrong?" Martha turns to the polices.

 

John waves her off. "It's not a big deal. It's just a case."

 

 

 

 

Moriarty groans loudly, screaming when he talks. "Everyone _shut up_! I can't hear my _thoughts_ in this _noise_! Donovan, leave the room; I can't think with your _face_ near me."

 

 

 

"Excuse me–"

 

Lestrade lightly pushes her out, muttering. "Just do it, we'll get somewhere if we just let him be."

 

She scoffs, but goes into the kitchen and out of sight anyway.

 

 

While they're fussing quietly, Jim is talking to himself rapidly. "Come on, come on, there's got to be something right in sight that I'm bypassing, I've got to _think_ —"

 

 

"What about your taxi?"

 

 

 

" _Mrs. Hudson–!_ "

 

 

 

As the landlady rushes back down the stairs, James realizes.

 

"I see now."

His fists ball in delight. "She was just that clever! _Gorgeous_!"

 

"Jim?" John's the only one to talk, but he's just as confused as the rest.

 

 

"Poor woman's smarter than you lot and she's post-mortem. Miss Wilson _knew_ she was going to her death. She obviously did _not_ lose her phone. Never did. She _planted it on him_. She was leading us to her killer."

 

"But— how?"

 

"Wha- how? What do you _mean_ "how"?"

Lestrade shrugs, and he goes on. "Rachel! Don't you see it? _Rachel!_ "

 

 

 

"Oh, it must be so quaint not being me." Jim rolls his eyes, becoming serious. "Rachel is not a _name_."

 

 

John responds, equal in tone. "Then.. what is it?"

 

"John– the luggage. There's a label. Email. Read it."

 

"Erm– _'jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk'_."

 

Whilst the blond was reading, Jim took to sitting down at the table and opening his netbook.

 

"I've been so _slow_. She didn't have a laptop; meaning all her business was on her _phone_. Smartphone, then, which is email enabled."

With the address in the top box and the password in the bottom, he continues.

 

"So the passkey is? All together now."

 

John leans over his shoulder. "Rachel."

 

 

Donovan returns from being ignored in the kitchen. "So? We can read her emails. What's the point of this, freak?"

 

"Sally, do shut up. You're lowering your own IQ by trying to make sense." He motions to the screen. "We can do much more than just that. It's a smartphone, included GPS, which means if you lose it you can relocate it online. She's leading us right to him."

 

"Unless he got rid of it." Lestrade adds.

 

Watson replies to him split-second. "We know he didn't."

 

 

Jim taps at the screen, urging it to load faster. It claims three minutes and he turns away from it, pacing the room again.

 

"James, dear. This taxi driver..."

He looks towards her.

 

"Mrs. Hudson. Have you taken your evening soother yet?"

 

 

John sits down where Jim left, in front of the laptop.

 

"Lestrade. We'll need vehicles; a helicopter."

 

 

Mrs. Hudson rocks on her heels, someone coming up the stairs behind her.

 

 

 

"We have to move fast. The phone's battery won't last forever."

 

"It's just a map reference, not a name."

 

"It's a start!"

 

 

 

 

John calls out for attention when the map starts to zoom in to a location.

"Jim..."

 

 

 

 

"This narrows it down from just anyone in the whole of London. It's the first proper lead we've had."

 

 

"Jim..!"

 

 

He inhales sharply and strides over to Watson quickly. "What is it? Where is it?"

 

"It's, ah, here. Two two one Baker Street."

 

" _Here_? How's it _here_?"

 

"Maybe it fell out of the case when you brought it up, and you didn't see?" Lestrade offers.

 

"Are you serious? _I_ didn't notice? _Me_?"

 

"Couldn't be," John butts in. "We texted him and he called back."

 

Greg shrugs and turns back to his colleagues, talking to them as Jim starts to swim in his own thoughts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _Who do we trust though we don't know a single detail about them?_

 

 

 

 

 

Behind Mrs. Hudson, the man has reached the landing on the staircase. A badge in a leather holder adorns his neck; the badge claims a licensed cab driver.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _Who passes, yet no one bothers to pay any attention?_

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?_

  


 

 

 

Jim is lost in thought.

  
  


 

 

Finally, he pieces it all together.

 

 

 

 

 

On the stairs, the taxi driver sends a text from the pink-cased smartphone he'd removed from his pocket.

 

 

 

Jim's phone beeps as the man retreats down the stairs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

> **COME WITH ME**

 

 

 

"Oi, Jim. You okay?"

 

The brunet waves him off, staring off at the empty staircase.

"Fine, fine."

 

"So, how can the phone be here?"

 

 

"I don't know."

 

 

John gets up, reaching for his own mobile.

"I'll try it again, then."

 

 

"Good idea."

 

"And where are you going?" Anderson pipes up.

 

 

"Fresh air. It's far too stuffy in here. Be back in a moment or two."

 

Watson frowns, watching Moriarty leave the room quietly.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

 

 

"I'm fine."

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

As soon as he's down the stairs, he grabs his suit jacket and steps out the door. The taxi is parked at the kerbside, the driver leaving against it.

 

"Taxi for James Moria'ty."

 

 

"I repeat; I didn't order a taxi."

 

"Doe'n't mean you don' need one."

 

 

"It was _you_ ; the cabbie who stopped outside Northumberland Street.

 

 _You_ , not the American passenger."

 

"Y'see? No'ne ever thinks 'bout the cabbie. 'S'like you're invisible; just the back of an 'ead. Proper 'vantage for a serial killer."

 

 

Jim takes a couple steps forward, glancing back at the windows to his flat.

"So you're confessing?"

 

"A'course. An' I'll tell you what else: If you bring down the coppers now, I won' run. I'll sit quiet an' let 'em take me down. I promise."

 

"... Why?"

 

" 'Cause you ain' gonna do that."

 

"Oh really?"

 

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Moria'ty. I spoke to 'em, an' they killed themselves. An' if you get the coppers now, I promise you one more thing."

The driver leans towards him.

 

"I won' ever tell you what I said."

 

 

 

As Jim stares, silently, the man straightens up, walking to the front of the cab to get in.

 

"But no one else will die. I call that a result."

 

"An' you won' never understand how, though. What kind'a result do you care about?"

 

 

 

He gets into the cab, closing the door and settling in comfortably. Jim stands there for a moment, before getting closer to the cab. He looks up one more time at the windows, then bends towards the open window of the car.

 

"And if I wanted to understand... I would..?"

 

"Le'me take you for a ride."

 

"What, so you can kill me as well?

 

"I don' wanna kill you, Mr. Moria'ty. I'm gonna talk to y'a... an' then you're gonna kill yourself."

 

The cabbie faces the front, not saying another word.

 

 

The consulting detective quiets up also, standing straight and losing himself in thought circled around the situation. It weighs on his desicion; bring down Lestrade and never know, having the prospect of not knowing pounding at the back of his mind- or get in, leaving the rest of them here without thought of who this man is, only a phone location to go off of, but his knowing of how each of these people were killed without anything but words. Jim bit on his lip, grabbing the door handle and sliding into the cab with the door shutting after him.

 

The cabbie starts the engine, ready to drive off.

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inside the flat, John has his mobile to his ear, staring out the window. He lowers it as the cab drives off, just watching as it fades from his view.

 

 

"He- he just got in the cab." The phone is placed on the table as he turns to Greg.

 

"Jim, he just- drove off in cab."

 

 

Beside Lestrade, Donovan tuts in irritation.

"Didn't I tell you? He does that." She turns to the D.I., "He bloody left again; I'm telling you, we're wasting our time here."

 

"Lestrade, I'm calling the phone. It's only ringing out."

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the cab, the pink mobile rings in the passenger's seat, untouched by the driver.

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"If it's ringing, then it's not here."

 

John lowers the phone again, checking the netbook.

"I'll try the search again; maybe it'll show somewhere else."

 

Sally shakes her head at Watson.

"What's the _point_? Does it even _matter_? He's a _lunatic_ , he will always let you down, and you're wasting your time. _We're_ wasting our time."

 

Greg sighs, looking from John, to Donovan, to the door. "I guess we're done 'ere."

  
  


* * *

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

The scenery that passes by is all normal and boring. Jim makes conversation.

 

"How did you find me?"

 

 

"I recognized you, soon as you were chasin' my cab. James Moria'ty! Was warned about you, I'll tell. I been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff; I loved it."

 

"Who warned you about me?"

 

"Jus' someone out there who's noticed y'a."

 

"Who would notice me? My name's not big." He stares into the front half of the cab, taking note of the photograph of a pair of children attached to the dash.

 

 

 

The cabbie meets his eyes briefly through the rear view mirror. "You're too modest, Mr. Moria'ty."

 

"Don't start me on _modesty_."

 

"You've got yourself a fan."

 

He slides back into the seat. "Keep going."

 

"That's all you'll get'a know..." He pauses for dramatic effect, and the continues quieter.

"In _this_ lifetime."

  
  
  
  
  


* * *

 

 

 

 

 

As Anderson and Donovan head out, Lestrade stays a few longer to talk with John. "Why'd he do that? Why'd he have to leave?"

 

The doctor shrugs. "No idea. You'd know him better than I would."

 

He scoffs at the notion. "I've known 'im five years, and trust me, I don't."

 

"Then why do you put up with him?"

 

"Because I'm desperate, that's why." He's shrugging his coat on as he speaks, finally following his officers out the door.

"And because Jim Moriarty is a great man. I tend to think that one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might turn out to be a good one."

 

 

 

 

The D.I. turns and leaves, leaving John to his thoughts, and the laptop.

  
  
  
  


 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Some distance from the flat, the cab turns and stops in front of two identical buildings. The engine's shut off and the cabbie gets out, opening the passenger door and waiting.

 

"Where are we, then?"

 

"I've been told you know every street in London; you should know exactly where this is."

 

 

Jim scoffs. "Roland-Kerr Further Education College. But why here?"

 

" 'S open. Cleaners are in. One thing 'bout bein' a cabbie: you always know a bunch'a nice, quiet places for a murder. I'm just surprised more'a us don't branch out."

 

"Well. Am I to assume you just walk your victims in? How?"

 

 

The older man pulls a pistol, leaving Jim unamused.

"Oh, boring.

 

"Don' worry. It gets better."

 

 

"You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint, y'know."

 

"I don'. I told y'a, it's much bet'er than that." He lowers the gun and starts walking towards the building. "I don' need this wit' you, 'cause I know you'll follow me anyway."

 

 

Jim makes a face as he gets out of the cab, doing exactly what the other predicted he'd do.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

* * *

 

 

 

At 221b, John is completely alone in the flat. Lestrade and his bunch had left, and Mrs. Hudson was back downstairs in her own rooms. He looks around the room idly, wondering what to do next. His eyes lock onto the laptop, still tracking the location of the phone. He takes a step towards it as it beeps, closing in on the phone's whereabouts. His eyes roll when it stops moving, settling on a location. He reads it to himself a few times, grabs his gun from his room and leaves the flat.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The cabbie opens the door to an empty room, stepping aside to let James walk in. The detective stares at him for a brief moment, but goes in anyway.

 

The room is dark. The other lets the door close as he walks in, switching on some of the lights and sitting down at a table. Jim lets the room sink in as he walks further inside.

 

“Well? What do y’a think?”

 

He shrugs, raising a brow and looking back at the man.

 

“Up t’a you. You’re the one who’s gonna die ‘ere.”

 

 

 

Jim turns around, narrowing his eyes. “No, I’m not.”

 

 

“ ‘S’what they all say.” He gestures to the bench across from himself. “Shall we talk?”

 

 

He hesitates purposefully for a moment before grabbing a chair and sitting across the table. They sit in silence until Moriarty speaks up.

“Bit risky, don’t you think? Taking me from my own flat while three policemen and one former armyman were inside? They aren’t too lousy at their jobs, those three. Mrs. Hudson is sure to remember your face, as well.”

 

 

“You think that’s’a risk? Nah. _This_ ,” He pulls out a small vial from his pocket, placing it on the table delicately. What lays inside is a single large capsule. “Is a risk.”

 

 

The younger man stares at the bottle.

 

 

“Y’see, I like this bit. ‘S ‘cause you don’ get it yet, do y’a? But you’re about to. I just have’t’a do this.” As he speaks, he retrieves another small phial and places it next to the first.

“Y’weren’t expecting _that_ , were y’a?”

 

He leans over the table. “Oooh, you’re gonna love this.”

 

 

“Love what, exactly?”

 

 

The cabbie sits back, ignoring the consultant’s question. “James Moria’ty. Look at you! ‘Ere in the flesh. Y’know, that website’a yours; your fan told me all ‘bout it. Just brilliant.”

 

“My fan,” Jim pronounces each word, pursing his lips.

 

“You’re brilliant, for sure. Proper genius, really. “The Mathematics of Ratiocination”, that’s clear, proper thinking. B’tween us two, why can’t people _think_?”

 

He looks down, seemingly angry. “Why can’t people think?”

 

He glances back up and at Jim’s face. The other stares right back, making a realization.

 

 

“Oh, I see. You fancy yourself a proper genius, too.”

 

“I don’ look it, do I? Funny old man drivin’ a cab. You’ll know bet'er in a moment. Maybe the last thing you’ll _ever_ know.”

 

 

Jim shook his head. “Of course.” This was boring him.

“Two bottles. Two pills. Explain it.”

 

“See, there’s a good bottle, and a bad bottle. Take the pill from the good bottle an’ you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die, obv’ously.”

 

“Both bottles are identical, clearly. And?”

 

“Only I know which is which.”

 

 

“So it’s a game.” He raised a brow.

“I don’t see why I should bother with it.”

 

“Well, you’re the one that chooses.”

 

He shrugs. “There’s nothing in it for me.”

 

 

“Oi, I ‘aven’t told you the best part. Whatever pill you choose, I take the one from the other bottle. An’ then, we both take our medicine.” The driver smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

Jim is interested now.

 

 

“I won’ even cheat. ‘S all yours. I’ll ‘ave whatever one you don’t.”

 

 

Moriarty is staring at both vials now, concentrating hard.

 

“I bet you didn't see _this_ coming, Mr. Moria'ty."

 

"So you did this for every other victim. You gave them a choice."

 

"An' now I'm givin' you one."

 

Jim glances up at him.

 

"Oh, you take your time. Get y'a'self together. I want your best game."

 

 

"This is no longer a game, it's chance." He all but scoffs.

 

"I played it four times an' I'm still alive. 'S not chance, 's chess. I'ss'a game of chess wit' one move an' one survivour. And this," He nods to the two bottles. " _This_.. is the move."

 

He carefully slides one of the two over to Moriarty and shrugs. "Did I jus' give you the good bottle, or the bad bottle? You can take either one."

  


 

 

 

 

There's a long silence in which neither man moves an inch, save for their eyes and minds.

 

 

 

 

 

"You ready yet, Mr. Moria'ty? I'ss'a fifty-fifty chance."

 

"And that's all it will ever be, so why ask whether I am or not when the answer has the same probability?"

 

 

"But you're not playin' numbers, you're playin' me. So what pill did I give y'a? Is it a bluff? A double bluff? Maybe a _triple_ bluff?"

 

"It's all just chance." The Westwood-clad sleuth shakes his head, looking back down at the table.

 

 

"I don' think four people in a row is just chance."

 

"That's luck, and I'm Irish."

 

"Pffh. 'S genius, I'm tellin' y'a. I know 'ow people think, an' I know 'ow they think I think. I see it all, like a map inside my 'ead."

 

The other's gaze focuses on the self-claimed genius adjacent himself, narrowing his eyes in scepticism. He says nothing.

 

"Everyone's so stupid– even you." He shrugs.

"Or maybe God jus' loves me."

  


"It doesn't matter; you're still wasted as a cabbie."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John's cab finally arrives at Roland-Kerr College, and he gets out and pays ungracefully quick. He waits until the taxi's driven off to glance between the two buildings, muttering to himself.

 

"Well, if he's following bit..."

He heads into one of them, gun in hand. “Fucking bastard, Jeff Hope…”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back inside, Jim folds his hands under his chin and stares at the cabbie intently.

 

“You risked your life four times to kill people. Why?”

 

Hope nods down at the bottles.

 

“Time to play.”

 

“Oh, I _am_ playing. This is _my_ turn.” He points an index finger at the other.

 

“Firstly– there’s shaving foam right behind your right ear; clearly, no one’s told you so. There’s traces of where it’s happened before, so you must live alone. Nobody around to tell you, and nobody in the cab who cares enough to look away from whatever’s catching their attention. Now, in the cab. There’s a picture of children; no mother. Cut out of the photograph, yet if she were still alive, she’d be there. Estranged father. Picture’s old but the frame’s pristine-new, meaning you think of your children often but never get to see them. She took the kids, but you still love then and, oh does it hurt.”

 

Jeff opens his mouth, about to speak, but Jim silences him with a finger.

“Ah, I’m not done.

 

Your clothes. Clearly, about three or so years old by the looks,though recently laundered. Keeping up your appearances but not planning ahead. Why? Here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What’s that all about?”

 

The cabbie finally regains control over himself, saying nothing as he glances back at James.

The realization hits him in the face in a matter of seconds.

 

 

“I see it now.” Moriarty nods slowly. “Three years past they told you, did they.”

 

“Told me what?” He replies flatly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _dying_

 

 

 

“That you’re a dead man walking.”

 

 

Jeff laughs. “Well, so are you, Mr. Moria’ty.”

 

“Oh, but you haven’t got long.”

 

“Aneurism.” The man points to the side of his head, shrugging with a smile. “Right in ‘ere. Any breath could be my last, they said.”

 

 

“So, because you’re dying, you’ve just murdered four people. That doesn’t sound right.”

 

“ ‘S not. I’ve outlived four people, see. ‘At’s the most fun you can ‘ave on an aneurism.”

 

“No, no. That’s not it either. You didn’t murder four people because you’re bitter. Bitterness is only a paralytic. Love is a much more _vicious_ motivator. This is about your _children_.”

 

“Oh,” Hope looks to the side. “You’re real good, ain’t y’a?”

 

“ _How_ , though?”

 

“When I die, my kids won’t get much, y’see. Bein’ a cabbie don’t give that much money.”

 

“Neither does serial killing.”

 

“It does, actually.”

 

“Oh? Tell me more.”

 

 

Hope leans towards Jim. “I’ve got myself a _sponsor_.”

 

“A what?”

 

“With every life I take, money gets sent to my kids. More I kill, the better off ‘ey’ll be. It’s not as bad as it looks.”

 

“Who would sponsor a serial killer?”

 

“Who’d be a fan of James Moria'ty?”

 

 

Jim frowns, and there’s a pin-drop silence as they stare each other down for a few sold moments.

 

“You ain’t the only man to enjoy a good murder. There’s others out there like you… ‘cept you’re just a man, and they’s so much more than that.”

 

“More than a man? Like what? An organization?”

 

“There’s a name no’ne says, an’ for good reason, too. I ain’t gonna say it either. Now, ‘at’s enough chatter.” Mr. Hope nods down at the bottles another time.

 

“Time to choose.”

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John sits beside the window, polishing his gun with his shirt as he mumbles to himself.

“Fucking Sherlock… I could have been here with my gear, ready to shoot both those imbeciles in the head. It’d be over and done in a second, noboby’d be the wiser, and both problems would be out of the way. But no. Can’t have it my way.”

 

He scuffs the floor, glancing out the window to the other building.

 

“Bloody bastards…”

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jim leans back in his chair, idly glancing from one bottle to the other.

“What if I didn’t choose either? I _could_ just walk out of here unscathed.”

 

“You either take the chance,” Jeff starts, pulling out the handgun he’d show out earlier. “Or I could shoot y’a in the head. Either way.”

 

“I guess I’ll go for the gun, then.” He smiles.

 

“Really? You sure?”

 

 

“Positive.”

 

“Don’t wan’ta phone a friend?”

“ _The gun_ , please.”

 

Hope grimaces a tad before pulling the trigger. At the end of the muzzle, a flame sparks out and lights. Moriarty’s smile grows.

 

“I know a real gun when I see one.” The man releases the trigger and the flame goes out.

“Funny; none’a the others did.”

 

 

“I’m not the others.”

 

“Obviously.” The detective pushes back his chair and stands, dusting off his suit. “Well, this was quite interesting. I do await the court case.”

“But, Mr. Moria’ty– did you figure out which bottle was which?”

 

 

 

Jim stops midway from the door, turning back to the other.

 

“Of course. It was child’s play.” He shrugs.

 

“So which one’s the good bottle?” He glances from the phials and back up to Jim.

“Just to know whether I could ‘ave beat you or not.”

 

Still intrigued, he takes a single step back towards the table.

 

“Come on, play the game.”

 

 

 

The brunet returns to the desk, swiping up the bottle closest Hope, walking straight past him.

 

Hope gives nothing away as he responds simple, “Interesting.”

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the other building, John readies himself, and his story to Jim.

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jeff takes the remaining capsule out of it’s container, rolling it around on the palm of his hand.

 

Jim inspects his own in the dim light.

 

“So. Shall we, then?”

 

He stares over to Moriarty.

 

“I mean, really. What do you think?” He doesn’t move out of place, other than turning towards the other.

 

“D’you think you can beat me? Are you clever enough to take th’a risk and bet your life?”

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

The blond aims from the opposite building, keeping his hands steady and his demeanor firm.

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Completely unaware that they’re being watched, Hope continues speaking.

“You get bored, don’ y’a? I do. An’ a man like yourself…”

 

 

Jim slides the pill between his thumb and index, feeling the exterior.

 

“Honest-to-god clever. But there ain’t no point in bein’ clever if you can’t prove it.” He laughs a bit to himself.

 

 

“But you’re still an addict to all this. It’s like’a force of gravity, an’ you’ll do anythin’ to keep it comin’... To keep from bein’ bored.”

 

Both men start to raise the pills to their mouths, James keeping a close eye on Hope.

 

 

“But you ain’t bored now, are y’a? Don’t it feel good?”

 

Without warning, a gunshot breaks out in the quick silence. Jefferson drops the pill in shellshock as the bullet pierces through his chest and continues straight on and out. He drops to the floor backwards, and Jim turns around to look at the broken window. He sees no one in the other building,; Hope coughs loudly.

 

He makes a fist around the pill and goes directly to the fallen cabbie, squatting down to his level.

“Well? Was I _right_?”

 

The man sputters and turns his head away. “I was; I had to have been. Tell me!”

 

He barely spits out a no, and Jim growls, chucking the pill across the room.

“Then tell me this– who’s your sponsor? My “ _fan_ ”. Give me a _name_.”

 

With another bout of coughing, Hope shakes his head and replies weakly. “No.”

 

 

Growing angered, the detective stomps a foot on the older man’s bullet wound.

 

 

 

“I want a _name_!”

 

 

 

Hope can only whine in pain, squeezing his eyes shut to try and block it out. Jim puts all his weight on the one foot.

 

“Give it to me!”

 

“Sh– Sherlock ‘olmes–!”

 

The cabbie’s head rolls and the room turns silent. Moriarty takes a few steps back, trying to wipe the blood off his shoe. He glances back at the window, mouthing the name to himself without a sound.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

 

 

James sits on the edge of the ambulance, shock blanket wrapped around him by one of the men, conversing with Lestrade.

“I don’t understand why they keep putting this back on me. I’m not in shock.”

 

Greg shrugs, hiding a snicker. “Some of the boys want to take pictures.”

 

 

Jim groans, tossing the blanket off himself in disgust.

 

“Anything about the shooter?”

 

 

“Nothing. Cleared off before we arrived. Guy like that could’a had enemies, though, so maybe one of ‘em could have followed… We’ve got nothing to go on, however.”

He scoffs, staring pointedly at the detective inspector. “Oh, please.”

 

“Alright, lay it out.”

 

 

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall? Hand gun. And a kill shot from that kind of distance with that weapon– you’re looking for a crackshot gunsman, but also a fighter. Hands couldn’t have shaken at all with that range and shot, so clearly he’s acclimated to violence. Whoever it was didn’t fire until I was in danger; so, moral principle. Likely looking for a man of military backgrou..nd....” A few feet behind the police tape stands John, hands behind his back and staring around idly. Things click.

 

 

“Forget everything I just said– I’m rambling with no sense.”

 

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“Dismiss it all. I’m in shock.” The Irishman pulls the discarded blanket back onto himself to prove his point. “See, I have a _blanket_.”

 

He gets up, starting towards Watson quickly. “Where are you going? I still have questions to ask you!”

 

 

“I— need to talk about the rent.” He turns his back to the D.I., “I caught you a serial killer, didn’t I?”

 

 

Lestrade sighs, rolling his eyes at the consulting detective. “We’ll bring you in tomorrow, then. Go on.”

 

“Thank you.” As he moves the caution tape to step under it, he tosses the blanket back at the ambulance.

 

 

 

 

“Johnny, _ooh_.” Jim dusts his shoulders from dust, looking the doctor in the eye. “Risky business, back there. Good shot, though.”

 

“Er- must have been.” The man whistles a bit.

“Don’t play coy, John. You just killed a man.” The man shrugs with a smile.

 

He tries to seem shocked at the accusation, but ultimately fails.

 

 

“So are you alright?”

 

“Just fine, honest.”

 

 

“I’d hope so.” Not truly reassured, Moriarty continues staring down the blond.

 

“...er, he wasn’t a very good man, though.” John offers. It makes the brunet chuckle.

 

 

“And an even worse cabbie.”

 

 

 

 

The two laugh a bit, before Watson tries to quiet them both as they walk. “It’s a crime scene– we can’t laugh!”

 

Donovan scoffs at them as they pass her, and they both quiet down a smidge.

“S-sorry. Just the, erm, nerve.”

 

“Right.”

 

Jim shrugs nonchalantly at her with his usual half-smirk grin on his face.

 

 

 

 

 

They continue on, and John’s face goes sour a they pass a sleek black car, woman standing outside it on her phone. Someone else watches from inside the car, but tinted windows don't show anything more than the man’s silhouette.

 

 

“John? Something wrong?” He follows the other’s line of sight, confused.

 

“Nothing– it’s nothing. let’s just keep walking.”

 

Jim nods in response, but doesn’t stop from glancing at the woman a second time.

 

 

 

 

> _late twenties/early thirties; constantly on the phone;_   
>  _works for someone higher up on the social status but doesn’t have quite the same air about her;_   
>  _loose crush on someone she barely knows- and can’t go after, how sad;_   
>  _knows more than she lets on;_

 

He blinks, realizing he’s a few feet behind his partner instead of right beside him; rushing himself a tad to catch up. The woman wasn’t of too much concern to him now.

 

“On the end of Baker street, there’s a good Chinese restaurant that’s open until two. You can always tell whether the chinese is good or not by examining the bottom third of the door handle.” He explains, causing John to shake his head with a small smile.

“You would bother to know that, wouldn’t you.”

 

“I’d have thought it was plain knowledge,” Jim plays along, grin growing.

 

 

“I’ll let you know I can always predict the fortune cookies. It’s fact.”

 

“Oh really? I doubt that.”

“Alright, almost always. So, left shoulder, I’ll presume?”

 

 

Watson blinks. “What?”

 

“In Afghan. You got shot. Right or left shoulder?”

 

“Er– left. How’d you– that had to be a guess.”

 

 

“I don’t guess, Johnny.”

 

“Of course you do.” Jim rolls his eyes at the notion, but that’s all he says about it. John glances at him curiously, only to find him still smiling grandly, constantly adjusting the jacket of his suit.

“Why’re you so... giddy?”

 

“Oh, just a name.”

 

 

“Who’s name?”

 

 

 

 

“I’ve absolutely no idea.” His voice comes off almost sing-song as he hails a cab back to Baker street.

  
  


 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

The window of the Bentley rolls down, and the brunette woman turns to it. “I believe I’ll have to keep a close eye on Doctor Watson, then. Unfortunate, but necessary.”

 

 

“Your, erm, brother won’t care for that very much, sir.”

 

“I understand he won’t, Anthea. But he’s made his mind and so has Doctor Watson, and I can’t afford to have both of them out of my watch. Set Watson to Grade Three surveillance, and transfer that to Mister Moriarty, just for caution.”

 

 

 

“Excuse me, but, who?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  
  
  
“Doctor Watson and one James Moriarty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I mentioned, I lost the same part of this chapter two times while writing it, and god was it upsetting to find one of the times I thought i lost it when italicising/editing this chapter for publishing. never again. o-o  
> Also, since I have too many tumblr blogs, Jim's blog does exist, though it's rather empty at the moment; as is Molly Hooper's, who's blog I have also created. (When I'm not writing up chapters or planning things for future chapters, I'll likely be writing things up for either Jim or Molly's blogs, eheh.)  
> [[ Here's [Jim's blog](http://themathematicsofratiocination.co.vu/) and [Molly's](http://mollyhooperxoxo.tumblr.com/), if you wanted to see my crappy tumblrs for them :'D ]]

**Author's Note:**

> I'd also like to note that this is about 14 pages on OpenOffice. That just makes me pleased. UvU


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